Feel the Fire and Finally Know
by equine02
Summary: The Newsboy strike of 1899 was big news. But they couldn't have done it without Brooklyn, and that's a fact. But Brooklyn wasn't new to strikes. As told by the one day-king of Brooklyn, Spot Conlon, this is the story of the real life Brooklyn Newsboy Strike of 1896.
1. Authors Note (IMPORTANT)

**Author's note (IMPORTANT):**

 **So guys, this is it. This is that big story I always tell myself I'll write but never do. All Newspaper headlines I use are actually from real newspapers at the time (I will list the sources, but I can't list the actual links because the site won't let me) Newspaper excerpts are real, although I'm not sure which paper Spot worked for (or if he even did at this time in his life, when he was probably 14 or so) so I am assigning him to** _ **The Brooklyn Eagle/Times**_ **(Two Newspapers so I have more headlines to work with. I'll choose one eventually:) Although seriously, Spot never sells papers ever, so lets be real… he just picks money off trees I guess.**

 **Now some facts you might not know that you might need to know to understand some random characters in this story: the Newsboy strike of 1899 was not organized or led by Jack Kelly, but inspired into action by a Jack Sullivan, who went on to disappear after only one appearance in a newspaper. How ever Blind Diamond- you might know him better as Kid Blink- was an Irish boy who gave some speeches to the guys to spur on the two-week event and was also part of the committee that ran the strike, along with some other newsboys, a kid who was apparently a prize fighter, and a pretzel seller named Crazy Arborn. Spot Conlon was not the big cheese as the voice of Brooklyn during the 1899 strike, but rather, some guy you all have heard of…. Racetrack Higgins was. He was quoted in the papers for his rousing speeches and such. That being said, while they are both in the story, the focus is on Spot. He was named for his freckles and famous for his pink suspenders (all real life stuff guys). The reason you need to know this is because I've decided for this story, which actually only lasts for a few days, I need some of these characters (obviously Spot, but I'm talking about the real life 1899 strikers. However, Jack Kelly still exists, and everyone else. I'm just adding some real life guys). And also, Race will be a little younger than usual, for story purposes. He's nine here, which will make him only 12 in 1899… but we'll ignore that for now. I've spread out the story since the strike of 1896 only lasted two days or so, so we're starting on March 21st, while the strike starts on March 29th or 30th (depending on how you look at it)**

 **I don't know if there is an actual cannon story out there for why Kid Blink is blind, but just bear with me, please, and let me know if there is. I'm also taking the liberty to invent a leader of Brooklyn so we can see Spot's rise to power. These are summary points, not spoilers. This in mind, I hope you enjoy the story and please let me know if you catch any errors (I'm an infant Fansie, don't hurt me, please!) I apologize for the length of this note thing, so lets get on to the juicy stuff. Oh, and this is not slash.**

 **Enjoy! (next chapter is number 1)**


	2. Setting the Scene

**(Everything in italics is Spot writing)**

 _March 21st, 1896, my woild caught fire. I said some thing's tah a guy who had a hell of a fist waitin'. Guess I shoulda watched my tongue. Gettin' ahead of myself._

 _Anyway, I even still remember dah best headlines dat day: WHY MOTT HANGED HIMSELF. ATHLETES SAIL FOR ATHENS. WEHTY LUNATICS AT LARGE. FRAUD IN THE HUT YARD. FATAL DYNAMITE EXPLOSION. TWO MEN KILLED ON A MARYLAND TROLLEY EXTENSION._

 _Yeah. Dah good ole days when we'se had real papes tah sell and real headlines. But I remembah buyin' that mornin' jus' feelin' the shivah of somthin' horrible crawling down my spine. I found a kid in the dumpstah, Jack, outside of Sheepshead. He was thin, and he had scrapes on his arms and face. He didn't have anything on him, save for dah scrappy pants. An' he was shiverin' out there in dah cold, middle of March. I took him home. Yeah, Jack, it's strange. I nevah thought I'd be like you, pickin' up street rats, but hell, if I ain't a street rat myself!_

 _Sos the kid was called Anthony. He had a big ugly bruise, like a U on his shoulder. I asked him what it was and he jus' shrugged and mumbled somethin' in Italian an' a little English about horses. Sos we called him Polo for a while, cause he was so little, like dem fancy polo ponies in the papes. But man that boy was off like a shot when he got in trouble, so we started callin' him Racetrack. Well, you won him, and I'se glad. He likes Manhatten and Brooklyn like a Muddah loves her kids Like, ah, like he'd love his bruddahs. Sos I'm gonna tell yah how it happened, how my woild caught on fire, and what Racetrack Higgens has tah do wi' it all._

…..

March 21, 1896

Around lunchtime

Spot Conlon reached into his pocket and pulled out a damp cracker.

"Here kid."

His eyes were careful to search for the familiar caps and the pale, dirty hands that poked above the crowds with a paper clenched tightly. He had a reputation, after all.

The kid had already inhaled the small bit of food before the Spot could turn back around.

"What's yah name?" He glanced at a German woman as she bustled past. He could tell; her face, her pale eyes and hair. "You German? Sprich Englisch?" He tried what little of the language he knew. Immigrants weren't rare; he'd picked it up faster than he would have thought.

"No." The boy mumbled, "No, voglio dire, ho un posto - ho capito- I got a place." His voice sounded so raspy, like splintered wood. Italian. Spot's eyebrows went up incredulously.

"Right kid, dat's why youse sleepin' in an alley. Don' lie, I knows when youse lyin'." He pointed at the kid. Slowly, he climbed off of the trashcan he was perched on, and then proceeded to crumple to the ground. It seemed he was probably weak from no food and the cold. How he got up there Spot had no idea. The older boy's expression began to soften, "Wanna lift, kid?"

Slowly, the petrified face of the boy lifted to the light, eyes heavy with shame and his small mouth turned down in frustration, "Am I too heavy?" His accent was thick, but Spot understood.

"Nah." Spot didn't want to kill the kid's dreams, but he was pretty sure a pigeon would weigh more than this little twig of a person. Unless the kid meant something else. Yeah, Spot was only 14. Picked on because of his freckles- named for them, in fact. He didn't seen like the guy to adopt a kid, especially one who couldn't be older than ten. He'd seen fellas take selling partners, but he had Straps. And he wouldn't give Straps up as long as there was breath in the King of Brooklyn's body… which didn't seem like much longer. The guy was on death's door back at the lodging house now.

As Spot entered the cold building, he had to shoulder his way past a swarm of strangers who often showed up this time of day, looking for directions and asking if this was a place to eat or sleep. Tourists left their muddy footprints on the door, but nothing else. Although he did get a few pitiful looks as he jogged up the stairs with the shivering boy and a few papes in hand.

Spot eventually escaped the confusion of skirts and glossy black shoes to the quiet of the soaking room. It was a long, thin room, situated like a city block with bunks in every open space and the "isles" in between. Staps lay there, shivering, coughing violently into a bloody rag while he got thinner and thinner every day. Spot laid the small boy in the bunk next to Straps', and then knelt by his friend's side.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" He asked quietly, almost reverently

"'S goin'." He sighed. His lips were stained a little red in the corners and Spot cringed to hear his heaving, wet breaths.

"Sold all yah papes?" the leader whispered.

Spot hid the three behind his back and pulled out the fourth. "All but one, sos you could have somethin' tah read."

Straps smiled, "You know dah last thing I wanna read is a newspapah." The smile was wistful. "But for tonight I c'n pre'tend. Likes I was livin' high in one o' dem big houses on Fifth Avenue, dah ones all a New York's screamin' bout. Wi' my robe an' slippers… an' a King Charles Spaniel to fetch it tah me." Straps was crying now, but still smiling. A thread of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth. He bit his lip as Spot held him close, gripping the feeling of ebbing life like sand. Hard, somewhat solid in his palm, but still falling through his fingers. His face was buried in Straps' hair. He could smell the coal and the memories of a dream they used to have. The dream about takin' the gang far away to live fancy. Living like kings.

But dying like dogs. His friend- maybe brother- pushed away from Spot to look him in the eyes.

"I ain't told no one yet. I'se been thinkin' it for a while, but my lips was sealed till taday. Look, I got it comin'-"

"-Don' say dat!" Spot tried to fight the feeling that he was losing control over everything as it moved around him. He sat on his knees, dizzy, next to the bed as his hand drew away from Straps. He wasn't anything without his other half.

"Lemme talk, cause dah words ain't comin' for much more."

Spot nodded. "I'se listenin'."

"Well I want you tah take dah crown."

"What?"

"King o' Brooklyn. It's what you wan'ed. Ain't it?" the older boy wached Spot's face change from waiting to pain.

"What _you_ wanted. We didn't-" he brushed a tear away roughly with his wrist, "-we didn't plan for dis."

"Well do you wan' it? I see Diamond with his eyes on it. An' Luke too."

"Dey's all got eyes for it."

"But you'se got dah brains."

"I dunno."

"C'mon, Spotty, don' make me die fightin'."

"You'se gonna do dat with or without me, champ."

The kid Spot had brought in coughed behind them.

"Who's dat, Conlon? Did Fox get himself soaked again?"

"Um, no." Spot considered lying. But the redhead Boston boy was too loud to keep a secret that he got soaked (even if he wanted to) for long enough for it to matter. Plus Straps had to know about this kid before he- well, maybe he wouldn't. There was time. "It's ah…. Kid I picked outta dah guttah."

Straps rubbed his temples and groaned softly, "an'uddah? But for reals, you ain't gonna keep dis one?"

"Why not?"

"Why not?! How bout last time you lost dah uddah tah Queens, an' we nevah hoid dah end of it!" Straps propped himself up, mimicking Whiskey, the leader of the Queens newsboys with his slightly German, slightly New Yorker accent, "Nah, he is mine, Straps. We've got 'im, fair and square!"

Both boys chuckled until Straps started to cough. He coughed and coughed, and couldn't stop until Spot began to worry he would suffocate. But at last when the coughing died away, Spot watched his friend lie back, exhausted, and whisper,

"Youse a good kid, Sean Conlan. Don' let them see it, or it's all dey's gonna see. Take care of dah kid, and if yah let him go, give him tah dah Bronx. Smalls could use a fella, she's pitiful."

"Yeah, she's also twelve."

Silence followed the smiles shared in the intense cold of the room.

"Spot?" Straps eventually spoke, "Peoples is breakable. Don' stand on 'em. Don't stand in 'dere way. Give yah guys dah room. The time will come when 'dey's gonna see yah believe dey can do anythin' dey wanna do, and you'll do anythin' right. An' now I think you should go sell those last three papes. Ise keepin' this one just cause yah is dah woist lyah I evah saw." Strap's blinked.

"What about the kid? He was kicked by a horse, told me so on the way ovah. Big bruise."

"Spots, I'se dyin', I ain't dead. I can watch dah pipsqueak, if he needs it. Right now I think he's somewheres else."

Spot turned to see the tiny figure sleeping silently under the pale grey covers. His form was weak and small, but so important. So Spot backed out of the room and into the even chillier New York in March.

"FRAUD IN DAH HUT YARD!" he yelled, thrusting the paper high in the air. He thought about Straps, and the kid. About being king of Brooklyn. But tomorrow would worry about itself.

 _Today,_ Spot thought as he handed the paper over for a nickel, _well dat takes all dah worry in dah woild._

 **So? First chapter thoughts? Good bad? Sorry it took me so long to get up. The site wasn't letting me post it last night for some reason.**

 **And yes, I will finish When it Gets Dark… just not right now. This story will have a really unplanned update schedule, so I apologize for that. Anyway, I hope you liked it! Drop me a comment if you did!**


	3. A Fifth of a Cent

**Disclaimer: You know the bit.**

 **Oh, a huge plot thing I forgot to tell you, and probably messed up on in the last chapter, is that the actually Brooklyn News Strike happened in 1886, not 1896. Sorry for the mistake. I changed it for this story, because they'd all be way too young for this to work.**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: there is a mention of suicide, although not too graphic (no blood or anything)**

 **March 28th**

 **Evening, Brooklyn Lodging house**

As he slapped the dark grey cap on the Italian boy's head, a grin spread over his pale face.

"I can….?"

"Yeah, you can keep it, but not dah accent. Not tah be picky, but youse gonna sell more if yah know dah lingo. Got it?"

"Got yah!" Polo grinned, mimicking Spot. His Italian accent still rasped thickly.

"'Ey, a natural!" Spot nudged Fox in the ribs as he and Diamond peered over their friend's shoulder.

"Yeah, I had'ta loose mah accent too, kiddo, and I'se dah stuff now." The Irish boy pointed to himself proudly. Fox nodded in agreement.

"Keep dreamin' Diamond. Dey's only callin' yah dat cause you'se a pile of shinin' coal," Luke called from his bunk. "We all know who's king."

"Straps?"

"Nah! Conlon over here. Look at dah profile- dats magic dere!" Luke pressed a his cap to his chest in mock respect. "Look at dah leadahship!" he made his voice low and fancy, like he was quoting a pape.

"Shuddup. It's Straps."

"Always will be."

They went silent. A full week had passed since this kid had come to them, and they'd started calling him Polo, because he was a small fella who talked about horses and bets most everytime something like that came up, and then in between. But Polo was not the end all solution to moral.

A doc had come by once for Straps, and said a long word- tuberculosis- and a longer word- the payment for treatment. They couldn't afford to save their leader.

"Well, dat's good enough kid," Spot stepped back, breaking the silence. He took in Polo's appearance from head to toe. They'd all chipped in to find a pair of trousers that would at least kind of fit, and he'd already had some decent shoes (though barely). The shirt was easy; just a faded green and black striped undershirt with some, ahem… _borrowed_ suspenders (Luke still hadn't caught on as to why his were missing) and the hat was a donation from another newsie who'd left last spring.

"Youse a propah Brooklyn newsie now."

"But can he sell?" they all looked up to see Straps leaning on the doorframe. His eyes were dark, and had circles under them. In violent contrast, his chapped lips and pale skin glowed like a ghost's. Polo shrunk back against Spot's leg. The older boy turned.

"Who old are you, kid?" Spot asked gently, turning to kneel in front of him. The kid shook his head. He probably didn't know, having lived on the streets for so long, or maybe he didn't understand. He looked about ten or so, but he could pass as seven, easy. "So kid, youse seven."

"Older…." he tried.

"Youse seven now. Younga sells bettah, shortstuff."

"Okay." He pouted, then glanced at Straps, " _Re_? Eh, King?" he asked in mixed Italian.

"Hmmm." Straps smiled, and a glimmer of what Spot used to know flashed in his old friend's eyes. "I likes 'im. Youse gonna pair 'im tommarah? Wi' who?"

"I figured I'd take him. But if you want me tah…"

"I'se wan' 'im."

"But youse…"

"Dyin', not dead, remembah. Jericho's place ain't dat far. I'se gonna sell near him." Straps motioned to the left, where a small window revealed the glowing evening in Brooklyn. The Boys all knew Maxie Jericho, who had a small fairgrounds he rented out, and this time of year was especially good, seeing it was spring and people had the burning desire to get out of their houses.

"You'se sure?"

"I don' need tah be sure. I'se dah King."

…

March 29,

Morning

Spot rose before the smoke from Brooklyn's factories had breached the skyline. He moved in and out of the pirouetting shadows of early risers with ease, swinging onto the Brooklyn Bridge before his breaths seemed to have even quickened from sleep. His eyes, half open, drank in the glory of New York. Home. This was home, and this was everything he needed until the day his lungs gave in and his heart became tired of beating in his chest. A cold breeze blew the hair out of his face as he stood on the edge of everything he knew. Spot Conlon- King of it all. Could he be excited for the possibility? But he loved Straps like family, and it was next to a deadly din to want him to die. Why did he want it so badly now- the title, the feeling? And there were still times he thought maybe Straps was just being nice, but really, he wanted the dream to come into reality, just like every other dream had failed to do. The leader was dying, it was clear, and Spot had a feeling there was nothing he could do about it. Since he'd left the streets to be a Newsie the world opened up in a spectacular, simple-life way. He could have everything he wanted, all for himself because of himself. All he needed, actually. He didn't want anything but that until he thought about directing the guys as their leader. People didn't look up to Spot Conlon, they just looked at him. He was a guy, not The guy.

As he closed his eyes and felt the warmth of a waking sun on his lids, the circulation bell triggered the adrenaline in the back of his mind. Today was a strange, wonderful day, he could feel it.

…

Arriving at the wagon, Spot first took in the peculiar sight with a hopeful expression. A man in a black silk suit with a purple vest and grey necktie stood on a raised temporary platform made of shipping pallets. A satin top hat was clutched in his fat hands.

"Look, boys, settle down! Quiet, settle down, I've got a proposition."

The hush was simply a muted bundle of yells as boys still talked urgently among themselves. Spot pushed to the front with his quarters warming in sweaty palms. He nudged Fox in the ribs.

"Hey, who's dat?"

"Calls himself William Masteson. He's got a prop-o-sit-ion." Fox used his natural proper "American" accent, as he called it. He went back to the Brooklyn swag, "'e ain't got nothin' tah say we ain't hoid."

Spot didn't take his eyes off the man when the back of his hand hit Fox in the chest, stopping him from leaving, "Just wait, yah nevah know."

"So here's how it is," Masteson held up a soft, untarnished hand that showed a life reading papers and books and writing with leather-handled pens. No dirty cash or newspaper strings to be untied. "You all are getting a lower price on newspapers."

The noise in the crowd of gathered boys exceeded it's previous rumble. Someone yelled out, "Yeah, but how much?"

"A fifth a cent a paper difference, son."

"You mean a fifth cent per pape?"

"He means we used to have a cent and a fifth per pape, but now it's a cent."

"Sos? A fifth ain't gonna take dah bread."

"Why are yah complainin'?"

"I'se not-"

"Boys, boys, settle down!" Masteson raised the almighty hand of peace, and the rushing words seemed to swell and then die down.

"Sos dis is for all of Brooklyn? Ise sellin' from Crown Heights and Bushwick most days 'cept when I can make it ovah here."

A chorus of "yeahs!" followed, and the man on the platform glanced uncomfortably at his counterparts behind him, who stood with gold-capped canes and waxed shoes. Their pristine suits made the streets look somehow dingier than before.

"That's all boys." He rushed to get off his platform. A raging swarm of Newsies shouted in response, but one voice rose above the rest. Straps moved forward with one hand wrapped around his midsection, breathing heavily. The Brooklyn boys gave their respect to the kid in front of them, silencing their cries and letting their chins fall a little.

"Hey, you didn't answer Quarry's question," he smiled in a way Spot had seen a thousand times, the smile that could charm snakes and make the world turn backwards. The smile to say, 'why shouldn't you answer?' "what about dah uddah guys, huh? Dey's got rights? Deys got dah fifth of a cent off?"

"That's all, I said," Masteson donned a black silk top hat, and climbed into the waiting carriage.

"Nah, I don't think we'se finished-" Straps' expression flicked threateningly at the man as he stepped closer to the carriage. The other men climbed inside, but Masteson only stared ahead from his seat inside as Straps leaned against the body of the thing, "I says we ain't finished!"

"Walk on, Carter," Masteson said to the driver, and Straps was forced to spring back as the carriage careened into motion. A flock of angry newsboys tried to follow, but stopped as their coughing leader straightened. A slightly bloody hand silenced them. It was straighter, firmer than Masteson's, like it was pressing against a wall to keep the boys from tearing the carriage apart as it rolled away.

"No good, fellas. Line up, papes ain't changin' price, dem goons is. We ain't losin' sleep or dough ovah dah woid of dat dead-brained pigeon, whateva his reasons are. If a cat toins down one mouse but not annudah he's got a reason. Line up! Price is same as evah, or none at all!" Quieter, he said, "dese things always come wid' a catch. You wait."

Polo, short and skinny, and still looking afraid of Straps, slowly approached the leader as Fox, Diamond, and Spot gathered close.

"Straps?" Spot almost whispered. "You okay?"

Straps was almost doubled over, and a grimace twisted his sixteen-year-old face. He held out a much shakier hand to stop us, this time from touching him.

"Go getcha papes-"

"-Straps, it's no good, dey won't take it. Dere price or none." Diamond shrugged.

"Dammit, why?"

"Who knows. But Straps, I gotta eat. I gotta buy a pape, dis new price or none. It's not about catches. We'se don't got dah time tah take a blessin' an' look at what might be wrong with it."

"Dat's not dah point Diamond! Uddah guys is gonna face some kind hurt for dis!"

Diamond bit his lip, "I'se sorry, but I can't jus' stop sellin'. I gotta take dah good stuff when it comes. Unless you can give me a reason, a solid good reason why dis could possibly hurt uddah kids?"

Straps looked down, "dere's always a catch," he repeated, "I don't know what it is. But I ain't gonna hurt uddah kids, no matter what. We'se Brooklyn. We don't scab on our own guys, no mattah what."

Diamond turned away, "I'se sorry Straps."

He walked away to buy his papers. A few dozen boys were already over there, anxiously rubbing coins between their fingers. Everybody had a conscious, but only some seemed to have woken up that morning. _They can't con Brooklyn, or even half of it_ , thought Spot. But it seemed somehow they still were.

Suddenly an unfamiliar set of eyes met his, and the extended hand held a scrap of mostly blank newspaper with something written on it. Spot tucked it away in his pocket.

…

Spot didn't buy that day, which means that day he didn't eat. It wasn't that he didn't have savings- but that was just it, they were savings. He couldn't waste them on a slice of bread and cheese and a glass of water from Barron's place. So instead he curled on himself to fight the hunger and boredom, just laying there on his bunk. Polo mirrored him, looking disappointed. And so he had a right to be. He was just a kid, looking forward to something, but that thing kept getting yanked away. Spot rolled over and out of bed, knocking the kid's cap over his eyes playfully on his way past. In his pocket, the paper from earlier crinkled noisily, although it's message was loud only to him.

"Where you goin'? Straps asked groggily from his bunk.

"Walk."

"Take dah kid wid' yah. Dem eyes is killin' me," Straps winked, and then fell quickly back asleep.

Spot mentioned for the kid to join him, and together they ran the distance to the Brooklyn bridge.

….

Polo's POV

Polo wasn't sure how the older boy knew that this tall, blonde boy would be waiting there on his side of the bridge. They'd had to cross the whole thing to find, at the end, a lanky teenager who looked almost like an adult, dressed in black and a red-checkered shirt. His eyes were dark brown and stared at Polo unnervingly.

"Ris." Spot greeted respectfully. He spat on his hand and held it out. Ris stepped forward in order to do the same.

"Who's dis?"

"Polo. New kid. He's good." Spot shifted uncomfortably. "Why did you want me?"

The falling sun made the shadows a daunting blue across Ris' pale face. "Did you buy today?"

"Nah."

"Did'yah hear about East Brooklyn?"

"Nah, what's rollin'?" Spot leaned against the rail. His brows drew together as the older boy spoke.

"Deys givin' yah dah fifth of a cent off cause dah boys in East Brooklyn ain't doin' so good. Dey's hopin' it will spur on circulation, kinda like a competition, cept neither side knows about dah uddah too well."

"How do yah know? Dat don't even make sense!"

"I make it my business tah know. Look, I don't make dah game, I jus' play it. An' you'd bettah too, if you know what's good for yah. An' dah kid too."

Polo looked up at the Manhattan leader. He tugged on Spot, "Che dire… hey che dir di cinghie? Egli ha detto…"

"Shush kid, look I dunno what that means-"

"Cinghie?" Ris looked down at Polo, who shrunk away. "Straps?"

Polo nodded and pointed to Spot, "talked."

Ris looked sideways at Spot, "What'd he say Conlon?"

Spot shrugged, "He don't want us buyin' papes on account dat dey's gonna come wid' a catch. I guess this is dah catch. I should tell him."

"No, no don't, you and youse guys need to buy dah papes, an' knowing Straps, he won't let yah. Despite dat famous advice of his not to step on dah people you lead, he sure does it a lot. Not sellin's gonna hurt worse than if you do. Jus' don't tell him, not yet."

"Whadda yah mean, not yet?" he frowned, "he's gonna be dead by dah time 'yet' rolls around!"

Ris' expression stayed neutral. "Dat ain't news. Dats jus' dah point. Youse got it comin' Spot Conlon- youse gonna take dah reins for Brooklyn. Lead your guys through dis strong like, let 'um makes dere own decisions. They've got brains. Don't let Straps be dere feet."

"Is _that_ what you called me here for?"

Ris shrugged, "mebbe."

"Be specific."

"Dat ain't my beat."

"Well what is it, den?"

The boys were chest to chest, fists balled. Spot closed his eyes and exhaled. He backed away.

"I don't want no war. You've got Manhattan. I don't have dah rights for Brooklyn yet, and sos I ain't gonna scab on Straps. You watch, Brooklyners ***** stick tagetha."

"Don't worry Ise gonna be watchin'."

Ris moved away into the shadows of Manhattan in stormy silence. A couple of his guys joined him from the wings of the bridge, and Spot spat on the ground as he turned around angrily, "C'mon Polo, we'se don' need no Risible Terry to keep us on dah right path!"

"Risible?" Polo stuttered, not understanding.

"Yeah," Spot smiled tightly, "it means, 'laughable'. Dat's ole Ris for yah. Only he don't know it."

Polo, who was barely listening, pointed over the bridge, down to the gleaming waters of the East river. "Cos'è quello? What's-"

Spot peered over the bridge, and immediately yanked Polo back.

"Don' look at dat, kid." He took the waterside of the bridge, holding Polo's hand tightly.

He wondered as they walked home in the silent reverence of everything that had happened- had he done the right thing? What if he'd left Polo in the gutter, because he sure as heck wouldn't make it in this world. He was too small and too innocent. He felt guilty for introducing Polo to this life of mixed tensions and unfeeling, cold cash.

But if he hadn't, maybe it would be Polo face down in that river, deader than the night over Brooklyn.

 ***the proper term is actually Brooklynite, although seeing this is Spot we're talking about (14 year old Spot at that) the proper term seemed too fancy**

 **So I hope you liked it. The whole fifth of a cent thing is real. I made up William Masteson, because I couldn't find the bigwigs behind this predicament. What happened was that in order to spur on the Newsies of West Brooklyn, a slight discount was given to the boys of East Brooklyn (where papers were one and a fifth cent per paper before, they were now just one cent. The one and a fifth cent stayed the same in West Brooklyn) I don't know why these publishers thought this would work, but I did my best to make it realistic. On March 30th, 1886, the day the boys of East Brooklyn found out and decided to strike, there were not headlines that I could find on the topic- proving that it was something the papers probably didn't want the people to know about.**

 **Drop me a comment if you feel like it (any writer will tell you, it feeds the muses!)**


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